


Out of the Woods

by emei



Category: Uprooted - Naomi Novik
Genre: Childhood Sweethearts, F/F, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5466914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emei/pseuds/emei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sing the one about the lady captain and the witch of the wood!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Woods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Themistoklis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themistoklis/gifts).



“Sing the one about the lady captain and the witch of the wood!” a young voice calls from the back corner of the tavern.

The bard hesitates, but they are far enough away from the Court that it should be safe enough. No one want the young King to hear word of lewd songs sung about the captain of his guard. The very loyal, completely ferocious, invulnerable captain of his guard. The bard starts picking out the first chords. In a shadowy corner by the fireplace, the caller leans contentedly back into her companion’s arms.

 

There are songs that travel all over Polnya and into Rosya, about the invulnerable golden warrior-queen, unstoppable in her rage against those who threaten what’s hers. In some of the songs, the queen breaks free of the wood after twenty long years to protect her grandchildren from the corrupted conspiracy that threatens them. Her spirit remains to keep her line safe from whatever may wish to harm them, the bards sing. The legend of the captain of the King’s guard grows ever stronger. Shining like polished amber, unswayable in her loyalties, and unreachable to all her admirers. 

There are plenty of songs about the witch of the wood, too. Where she goes a-wandering you had better not walk alone.

Of course, there’s also the romantic ballad of the fearsome lady knight who rescued a princess trapped in a tower by a dragon – that one is mostly sung in the southern parts of the kingdom, where the Wood has only ever been a distant fright and no one has ever met the Dragon. It’s silly, but Kasia quite likes it. No one dies in that one.

She used to imagine travelling all over Polnya, after the Tower, collecting ballads and bringing them back to sing for Agnieszka. She never thought she’d be in them, didn’t know she was meant to from the very beginning – in the Valley no one had ever dared sing about dragons who stole away maidens from their families and locked them away until they grew old and shrivelled.

Kasia remembers learning how to cook more elaborate meals than anyone in Dvernik ever had cause to eat, sweating over the pans in high summer, never letting her exhaustion show. Remembers almost despising Agnieszka for not having to be brave, for belonging so effortlessly to the Valley, but never being able to hate her for more than a moment. Nieshka’s warm, strong little hand leading her through the trees. Kasia remembers imagining coming back home to the Valley, back home to Agnieszka, how the thought of it was brightly, sweetly painful – much like seeing Nieshka’s smile up close and reaching out to wipe away a smudge of dirt from her cheek and not letting her fingers linger. 

 

Now Kasia is returning to the Valley, and it’s all completely different. At least this time there isn’t an army at her heels.

Alosha is keeping an eye on the Court in Gidna, making sure that Stashek and Marisha don’t get into too much trouble. Kasia hasn’t been this free from obligations for years and years. Except those first few weeks after Agnieszka got taken instead, perhaps. But that was not freedom, or relief, but more like an echoing numb silence after an explosion. No one had known what to do with her, and she hadn’t either. Put one foot in front of the other, put a brave face on it – except she had been brave for so long, been so ready to face her future with courage, but that all splintered, turned wrong. All the time spent saying goodbye had not prepared her for being left behind, and that was an all-new pain tightening her chest, turning her limbs lead-heavy.

This, though, this is just time for herself. No obligation, no one’s life in danger. It’s not even just a pause to breathe before the day when everything inevitably will change. Life could be like this forever. It probably won’t, but it could, and that’s a decidedly odd feeling, relaxing and unsettling all at once. The wagon rumbles along the mountain road. Far ahead, there’s a glimpse of sunshine reflecting off the Spindle, and Kasia is suddenly desperately thirsty. 

 

Agnieszka had written to wait for her at Zatochek bridge. Coming through the Valley is a thousand little homecomings all at once, the familiar fields and villages, the crunch of the path under the wheels of the wagon, the air full of humming and clean-sharp smells of the river and the Wood. The landscape is healing up around the gouges of the battle. She sees the Tower from a distance, still tilting precariously. Agnieszka won’t let it fall, she’s sure of that, but it’s just like her to leave it in a mess, not a single straight line or polished surface to be found. Kasia finds herself leaning forward, trying to will her trusty horse to forward just a little faster. It took some convincing to get away from Gidna without a full honour guard, and half the city’s supplies, and Stashek and Marisha themselves. Next time, Kasia had to promise, next time they’ll go together. Alosha is a very useful ally for evading unnecessary ceremony, too. The closer she gets to Zatochek, the gladder Kasia is for it.

She doesn’t stop in the village, hardly notices if anyone is out or moving around. There it is, there’s the bridge, with the heart-tree tangling its roots all around the logs of the bridge and stretching its branches up and out over the Spindle. And there, in its dappled shade, is Agnieszka. Kasia drops the reins and tumbles down, is up on the bridge in two great steps. She comes to a stop, takes a breath. _Nieshka._ There’s white heart-tree blossoms caught in her hair, mud and grass stains on her dress, she looks like wilderness and peace and she’s thrown her arms around Kasia’s neck. Slowly, carefully, Kasia brings her arms up to hug her back with the lightest of touches. Nieshka smells like wildflowers and moss and sweat, just like herself. Kasia takes a breath, and another, and lets go, steps back.

Nieshka’s smile is broad and warm. “Welcome home. Come on, let me show you to my cottage.” She gives Kasia’s horse a pat and a stern look, telling it to find it’s way straight to her place, no detours. And then she takes Kasia by the hand and leads her over the bridge towards the Wood.

They take their time, getting to the clearing in the Wood with the little tree-cottage. The Wood bends and shapes itself around them, branches stretching out towards Agnieszka as if in greeting or away to clear her a path. The air is easier to breathe here, sweet in her lungs and on her skin, just like she knows the river water will be. The deeper into the Wood they get, the more she can see its power thrumming in Agnieszka, warm and friendly. She’s always been at ease among the trees, but it’s different now than when they were young, much deeper. Nieshka’s hand also feels different in hers – so smooth, soft and delicate compared to her own unyielding flesh. But Nieshka has never been fragile, her strong hands always the most dependable. The energy that builds up between their palms and thrills up Kasia’s arm and shivers down her back and into the tips of her fingers, that feels just the same.

 

Later, they’re seated in the grove outside the tree-cottage, having a light dinner of heart-tree fruit and Spindle-water. The sun is sinking over the Valley, and the fruit tastes like homecoming and longed-for summer rains and rest. Kasia leans her head back against the bark of the cottage wall and hums the melody that’s been running around her head for the last day or two.

“What’s this one, then?” Nieshka sounds smiley, impatient.

“New song I heard in a tavern not for from the Yellow Marshes,” Kasia says. “The lady captain and the witch of the wood. It’s… a little bawdy.”

“Sing it anyway.”

Kasia does. Nieshka tilts towards her so that their arms press together, taps her fingers to the rhythm on the back of Kasia’s hand. It’s a silly, catchy song. Kasia’s voice catches a little when the witch rescues the captain from a part of the woods she should never have gone into, and Nieshka twines their fingers together. Then it goes on to how the captain wants to give the witch her thanks, _and she says come into my cottage darling, come down into the hay, and show me the sweetest, the sweetest –_

Kasia breaks off. Nieshka has gone very still. Kasia forces herself to turn her head and look at her. The air feels heavy, holding her in place. Nieshka’ cheeks are turning rosy, and she’s biting her lip like she does when she’s about to say something that she thinks she shouldn’t, like sinking her teeth in is the last futile attempt to hold back whatever ill-advised idea has her in its grip. Kasia desperately wants to know. 

Nieshka looks up, catches her gaze, questioning. She manages the slightest of nods, and then Nieshka’s free hand is cupped around her face and she’s leaning in, eyes open wide. Kasia feels pinned, torn open. Nieshka’s lips are very soft, and sticky sweet with fruit juice. 

She pulls back, manages a breath and a soft _oh._ A smile is spreading over Nieshka’s face again, the one with a wicked little turn at the corner that says that she has a secret to share; a good one. Kasia’s never been able to resist it. She tugs on their entwined hands, draws Nieshka up into her lap, face to face and straddling her thighs.

“Really?”

“Really, really. Honestly.”

The second kiss tastes less like fruit and more like Nieshka – messy and sweet and with a warm tang of magic. Kasia wishes that she had know for years, that this is what kissing her tastes like. But they have time now, more than she had ever dreamt of.

 


End file.
